


the monster you know

by schwifty_rick



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Incest, M/M, Ugh, ish, not sure what else to tag tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 22:43:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6396925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schwifty_rick/pseuds/schwifty_rick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morty tends to not let his mind wander too far, because sometimes that gets dangerous when he starts to imagine the way the bones shift in Rick's back when he bends over, or how lately he's been forgetting where he put his screwdriver when Morty can clearly see it sticking out of his front lapel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the monster you know

**Author's Note:**

> This has been the absolute WORST to work on. Seriously. This took me weeks to get down and I'm still not satisfied with it. Honestly. Thanks so much to The-Clairvoyant-Rick and berpersons for reading this mess over and helping me out when I was stuck!

It's a cold Saturday afternoon in mid January when he realizes it.

Rick's shrugging off his lab coat, marked with dirt and grime -  blood that might be his, Morty's, or the alien's they murdered ten minutes ago. There's a certain sort of quiet that fills the air after missions like these. Like, they both know what they've done, both know the silence is more due to nausea than lack of things to say, yet it's comfortable. Because if neither of them speak about what happened, maybe, just maybe they can pretend it didn't. Maybe they can pile it on top of the countless adventures, bury it somewhere between Blips and Chitz and free ice cream, squash it by the good memories and maybe it'll fade away.

Morty remembers his first year of adventures with Rick. When his morals were high and he was righteous and he thought he could save everyone. These days, he's not even sure he save himself half the time. These days, he'd turn a blind eye to a prisoner being held captive or an alien being tortured because it's just not worth it. Not worth the expended effort.

He's not surprised when the same eyes he turned down that day show up in his dreams later that night, covered in blood and blame and more reasons why Morty can't sleep.

When he looks in the mirror these days, Morty sees the same washed out cynicism in his eyes that he used to see in Rick's and, if he's being honest, it scares the hell out of him.

As Rick plops down on his stool, fumbling into his pocket to down a gulp of the magic that lets him forget, Morty realizes it.

He's following in Rick's footsteps. He's becoming more and more like him each day.

For a long time, he tried holding onto his morals because he knew that was the only real difference between them, and now Morty wonders how long Rick held onto his before he snapped.

"Morty, I know not much goes on between your ears in that little space that you call a brain, but you look like you've been cryogenically frozen for Christ's sake. You - you're freaking me ou _euuuugh_ t."

The younger boy frowns, eyes snapping to Rick with a clinical expression. The old man is slurring and shaking, and Morty can smell the liquor from across the garage. Is this really what he has to look forward to? Is this his future? Lonely and depressed mad man with dribbles of spit stained onto his blue cotton polyester blend? He doesn't want this, doesn't want _him._ He has to keep convincing himself of that.

Morty contemplates answering, but he's older now. He knows the only point in responding would be to give Rick what he wants - something he's only now beginning to understand what that entails.

Instead, he evades. "Why the hell do we keep doing this, Rick? What's - what's the endgame here?"

"Endgame? Shit, Morty. Didn't know you - didn't realize you were a philosopher now. That what college does to you? Makes you - makes you think about your life and shit? Think about the _meaning of it all?_ "

"It's better than living in denial, _Rick._ "

"Denial? Listen, Morty, if I wanted an inquisition I would've let the feds have me. I don't know what the hell's gotten into you lately, but I sure as shit don't have enough time left in my life to entertain these sorts of questions."

"You know what? Forget it."

Morty's face is hot and he can't quite keep still, feeling the need to clench his fists and lock his jaw, all sorts of pent up energy just waiting to be released. But what's the point? He wouldn't get anywhere. He glances at Rick's lips, spittle spilling out of the dry, chapped skin. "I'm - I'll be upstairs."

He thinks he hears something along the lines of, "I thought you were past the teen angst phase, Morty," on the way up.

In his room, Morty plops onto his bed and glares at the ceiling. He tucks an arm behind his head.

He's not even sure where his anger is stemming from, but it has to be hidden somewhere between Rick's blatant disregard for those around him, and the fact that he didn't even thank Morty for saving his ass back on that adventure.

He tends to not let his mind wander too far, because sometimes that gets dangerous when he starts to imagine the way the bones shift in Rick's back when he bends over, or how lately he's been forgetting where he put his screwdriver when Morty can clearly see it sticking out of his front lapel.

He hears the hushed whispers of his parents at night. The quiet huddle of light peeking out through the creek underneath their door when Morty heads downstairs for a drink at 2AM some nights.

"I just think he could benefit from seeing a doctor," Jerry reasons, and for once, Morty might think that he agrees.

"You know my father would never agree to that." Beth replies, voice tired and slurred. Morty's sure she's got a bottle of wine in her hands because he doesn't think he's seen her without one for the past few months, and is beginning to think that she's tethered to it.

"He left one of his inventions in the refrigerator last week! Do you know how long it took me to clean off that purple slime?"

"Well it's not like you have anything else to do all day, is it, Jerry?"

"That's not the point Beth. The point is your father is getting old and who knows how much longer -"

And that's when Morty walks away, his feet moving before his mind can register what the rest of his father's sentence might've been.

The realization that Rick is dying is an impossibility. Sure, Morty knows that Rick is old but he sure as hell never acts it. He's agile and lithe, intelligent and open minded. He never seems  his age, so maybe that's why Morty has a hard time accepting the fact that Rick could die. He always cheats death, always has an excuse to say he's ready yet. And as careless as Rick's been, Morty feels like he's just waiting for it to happen. Like he'll come home from class one day to his parents and Summer all crowded at the dining room table, mascara running down Summer's cheeks as they all give him That Look. And he'll have to pick out a suit to wear and deal with everyone asking him if he's okay as they all give him encouraging little pats on the shoulder because,

"You always were his favorite, you know."

He knows.

He knows a little too well. He knows from the way that over the years, Rick's stopped asking about Jessica or if Morty is ever going to find himself a girlfriend. He knows from the way that he catches Rick staring a second too long after he takes his shirt off on a particularly hot day, or how Rick will tense up if Morty sits too close to him on the couch.

Morty notices these things, catalogues them into his mind under the 'deal with this later' file, only to have it pop back up in the middle of the night when he's trying to jack off to porn but the moans of the girl on the screen are never enough to send him over the edge, so he starts to imagine Rick's voice instead.

And after, when he realizes in horror that his voice _is_ enough to get him off, he showers until all the hot water is gone and he's left freezing and ashamed, yet still burning inside.

He tries not to think about these things too much because it's hard enough to deal with the fact that Rick will be gone one day, let alone if he starts to wonder if he'll ever get the chance to experience Rick spending just as much time on _him_ as he would one of his projects.

It's fucked up, but at the same time, what makes this so much worse than the dozens of people he's killed, or the prospect of him fucking some alien creature with more limbs than fingers? "It's a planetary mindset," Rick had said to him once. This is when Morty realized that morality is nothing more than a way to help people sleep at night. A way to justify those who have killed and tortured others. A way to be disconnected from the serial killers because they, well they're crazy, there's no way a _normal_ person could ever do that.

The quicker the days pass, the more Morty’s forced to admit he's running out of time. He knows the game that both of them are playing - sees them both dancing at the edge of the shakily drawn line, but wonders when either of them will dare to cross it.

A knock on his door jars Morty from his thoughts.

"Hey, Mom and Dad are taking us to see that stupid play tonight. You almost ready?" It’s Summer. She’s dolled up and impatient, waiting for his response.

Morty gives a blank stare. "Play?"

Summer juts out her hip, all Teen Vogue and straight out of the magazine she keeps at her bedside. "Don't you remember? They bought the tickets _weeks_ ago. Honestly I don't know how you could even forget about it with how much Dad's been rambling on about it ever since."

Morty frowns, glances across the hall to where Rick's room is. He thinks that Summer isn't as dumb as she looks and that maybe getting C's really is a _choice_ and not just how it is because when she narrows her eyes accusingly and says, "If you want some alone time with Grandpa Rick all you need to do is say so," Morty blushes. He can't quite meet her eyes, because he's not sure if he'll find judgment or acceptance in her stare. He's scared to find out, scared because he's not sure which would be worse.

"W-What about the play?"

Summer rolls her eyes. "Please. If I couldn't come up with a lie to appease Mom and Dad we'd both be dead by now. I'll tell them you're feeling sick. I'm sure by the time we get to the theater they won't even remember you agreed to come in the first place."

It's  times like these when Morty appreciates Summer most. She doesn't ask any questions, like why he really wants alone time with Rick, or why he can't just speak up for himself. She has his back with or without explanation, and he thinks that for all the times she's been a mean older sister, it's worth it for the few times she's a nice one.

"Thanks, Summer."

She nods and gives him a soft smile, then darts off down the hall and a few minutes later Morty hears the car's engine revving up outside. The TV turns on downstairs, and his feet are already leading him there before he can really come up with a solid plan on what to say.

Rick's lazily slinked up against the couch, arm draped over the backrest and leg propped up on the coffee table. Morty swallows, drinks in the sight of him without his lab coat on, how the blue undershirt hugs his frail body yet somehow, it's attractive.

"Are you done being on your period, Morty?" Rick bites out, but Morty knows this is just his way of making amends.

Morty sits on the couch next to Rick, folds his legs, and bunches his hands into his lap. He's more than aware of Rick's close proximity, and his muscles tense in anticipation. For what? He hasn't even said anything yet. His heart thrums as he trains his eyes on the television, despite distinctly knowing that neither of them are actually paying attention to what's on.

Judging from Rick's position, one might assume he _looks_ relaxed, but Morty knows better. His breaths are too methodical. He's too still. Too quiet. Too -

"Don't do it."

Morty snaps his gaze up, tries to wipe off the sweat gathering in his hands onto his jeans. "Do what?"

Rick breaks his gaze from the TV and slides over to Morty. He gives him a onceover. "Don't play this game." 

"W-What are you _talking_ about, Rick?"

"You're as red as a glip glop on colaxian crystals. Like, like you've been hitting the bottle real hard tonight or something. Like, like you're _me_ or something. And I'm just telling you: don't do this. It won't change anything for the better."

Rick crosses his legs, pants hiking up enough to show his ankles. Morty's baffled. He doesn't expect Rick to cut him off before he even begins.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Morty defends. Why should Rick get to call all of the shots? He's not sure what he wants more: to give in and smash both their mouths together, or to deny the whole thing and accuse Rick of being the sick fuck that he knows he is.

"Don't you dare play dumb, Morty. And don't pretend - don't think _I'm_ dumb either. I think we're both fully aware of what's going on. What's _been_ going on."

"If you're so aware," Morty shoots back, "then why haven't you done anything about it?"

This is what breaks Rick's carefully placed facade. When he snaps, it's not articulated. When he snaps, it's like a rabid dog trying to grasp at anything to bite, even if that thing might be his own leg.

"Because, you idiot! It's, it's not normal and it sure is hell isn't something you won't regret years down the line. I won't speak for myself because, fuck, we both know there's not much I wouldn't do, but this...I won't - I won't risk you like that."

"What if," Morty begins, quiet and shy, "what if you regret _not_ doing it?"

"Look, Morty, I'm old. I've already done all the shit that I regret. Now's not - it's not time for me to start doing more. You - you're still young. You won't always be the person you are now. And when - when you're older and I'm gone, I want you to remember the adventures we've had. I want...I want you to think back and say to yourself, _shit I remember that time Grandpa Rick almost got our asses killed the time he tried to break into the Intergalactic Federation to steal some time crystals,_ not, _I remember that time Grandpa Rick pinned me against the couch and fucked my brains out while we listened to Ball Fondlers playing in the background._ Got it?"

Morty leans forward, face buried in his hands and he can smell it - smell the alcohol and bad breath that used to make him want to vomit but now makes him lean in closer.

"What about...what I want?" and he's drunk off Rick's smell, drunk off the way he sees Rick swallow because he's steadily getting closer, already having made up both of their minds to just say _fuck it_ and deal with the repercussions afterwards. Because Morty can see the way Rick's pants are starting to look a little tighter at the crotch, and the way his eyes keep flickering to Morty's lips.

"Hate to break it to you, Morty, but you don't - you don't know _what_ you want..."

Morty's too busy leaning forward to hear this, eyes focused on the drool that's gathered at the corner of Rick's lips. He closes his eyes and juts forward the rest of the way - half expecting fireworks and an electric current running through his body when it happens. What he doesn't expect is rough lips sealed shut tight, and arms that are forcing him away, the whole thing over quicker than he can even realize it began. He doesn't expect to be jostled back on the couch as Rick stands over him, heaving and wobbly, and angry. He doesn't expect the bout of nausea that makes him want to double over - away from the face with eyes that make him feel like a two year old child who's done something terribly wrong.

 _This is it,_ he thinks, _I've fucked things up for good._

He feels Rick grab hold of his shirt, yanking him forward.

Feels the heat coming off him - off his breath - puffing out onto his cheek. Feels the anger, feels the desire, the want, the contemplation.

"You -"

"I've never known you to be a coward, Rick." Morty challenges, because he's angry and embarrassed for putting himself out there only to be shot down like any of the girls would do to him at school. This is supposed to be different, Rick is supposed to be different. He’s supposed to understand - supposed to want him back - and he isn't sure why that’s more comforting to him than the thought of Jessica pushing her perky breasts up against him, but it is.

It is.

"You're playing with fire," Rick accuses, voice low and rough, "and you're not going to stop until you've been burned. Fuck, Morty, I'm trying to be the responsible one for once."

"Well, you picked a shit time to do that Rick. Save the self sacrificing act for Broadway. We both know I'm fully capable of making my own decisions. I want this. I -" Morty reaches up, hand curling around the back of Rick's neck, "I want you."

"Shit," Rick says, forehead coming to rest against Morty's cheek and he can feel the sweat gathering. He releases Morty’s shirt, letting his arms hang limp at his sides. Morty’s pulse races, waiting for Rick to do something, _anything,_ to just move damnit, when,

“This is so fucked.” Rick admits. And there it is, the defeat. The white flag. He feels the way Rick’s body relaxes and a heavy sigh escapes his lips, like he’s just let out all of the reservations and doubts he’s been holding inside.

Morty’s quiet as he feels Rick’s breath against the crook of his neck. He tries his best not to move, scared he might break the moment.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“Hey, Morty, promise me something.”

“What, Rick?”

Morty wants so badly to turn his head to look at Rick’s face because the way he’s speaking is foreign to him. He’s never heard Rick sound so desperate, so unsure.

“Promise me that when I’m six feet under you won’t - you won’t hate me. I know you can’t guarantee this, but just...just promise me.”

“Rick, I - where is this coming from?”

Rick’s head bows lower, leaning against Morty’s shoulder. His hands come up to grasp Morty tightly, fingers digging into his sides.

“I was a _shit_ parent, Morty. I thought - I...I never wanted to be a shit grandparent, too.”

“You’re not!” Morty protests, pulling away. There’s anger and fear in his eyes, as his vision slowly becomes more and more blurry. “You’re not a shit grandparent. You...you’re the only one who ever…” Morty squints his eyes shut, “You’re the only one who was ever _there for me_.”

Rick meets his eyes, studies him for a moment to see if his face matches his words, then grasps his chin and leans forward, decision made.

He presses his lips to Morty's jaw once, hesitant, curious, and Morty feels that fire he was missing before.

Rick’s been many types of lovers before, but he doesn’t think he’s been this raw and exposed for quite some time. He slants his lips over Morty’s, and it’s dirty and wrong, but fuck, it feels right.

Morty shivers, feeling his body fit itself around Rick's like they've been acquainted for years this way, like they're just right for each other, and fuck, part of him is screaming all of the reasons why they shouldn’t do this, but Morty just squashes it between their bodies, buries it with his fingers in Rick's hair, opens his mouth up for him. And Rick's leaning forward, seemingly stronger and more lithe than he should be as he presses Morty back into the couch and settles himself between the younger boy's hips.

Morty feels Rick's hip bones digging into his, and part of him wants to shift away to relieve the sharp twinge, but that would mean moving away from the other hardness pressing into his thigh and he isn't quite ready to do that just yet.

He gasps for air, lungs burning from the lack of it, and Rick uses this time to attack Morty's throat, sucking and nipping at the oversensitive skin.

Rick is unforgiving and he doesn't spare Morty any reservations as he nips and bites at the flesh, far too hungry for someone who - until moments ago - was set on not doing this. 

He feels dirty as Rick unravels him like an equation - careful and calculating. He encounters from all angles, meticulous and confident. 

Morty's heart quickens, embarrassed by the enthusiastic moan that escapes his lips when Rick's hands squeeze his thigh. 

"You like that?" he asks breathless, licking the drool from his own lips, sloppy grin all smug and dangerous.

Morty nods, voice too shaky to trust it, as his fingers dip underneath Rick's shirt to feel the ashen skin there. His fingers ghost across his grandfather's ribcage, noticing the way the bones stick out. He presses just a bit, fits his finger in between the gaps where he thinks he finds what he's been looking for all this time.

His entire life, Morty had been very firm on doing the right thing - on abiding by morals and expectations. It feels good to do the wrong thing for once. To give in, to take, and hell, to receive.  

Half of him had thought that if he gave in once then it would be enough, but now, with Rick’s hands buried half way down Morty’s pants and his name at the cusp of Morty’s lips as he moans and squirms for release from the aching tension that’s been building for years, he knows it isn’t. 

The two of them - they don’t have enough time left on Earth together to satisfy their sick desires.  

"We’re so fucked." Rick says, and for a moment Morty can see the doubt in his eyes.

Morty shrugs, delighting in the fact that he can pull Rick closer and feel their naked torsos connect. “Maybe,” he reasons.

He wonders if this is how it’ll be from now on:  them hiding and sneaking behind closed doors, fucking like some forbidden teen romance novel while the rest of his family sleeps two rooms away. He wonders if Rick will ever tire of him, if this will be something that happens often or once in awhile. Even more so, he wonders what’ll happen once Rick’s gone. When he has these memories swirling around his head and he wants to hate Rick for what they’ve done but he knows he can’t. He won’t.

Lying next to his now passed out grandfather trying to figure out a way to get him into bed with clothes _on_ before his parents got home, Morty closes his eyes.

For now, this would have to be enough.

 

**Author's Note:**

> come sin with me on tumblr! @schwifty-rick


End file.
